The Diary of a Nobody

"Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see
— because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody' — why my diary should not be interesting.
My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth."

This is a daily weblog version of The Diary of a Nobody,
written by George Grossmith and
originally serialised in Punch magazine in 1888 and 1889. Bringing Charles Pooter into the
21st century, his diary is now available as a selection of weblog-style RSS feeds which you can subscribe to,
via a feed
aggregator, or through certain browsers. The diary restarts on April 3 each year.

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November 26, Sunday.—The curate preached a very good sermon
to-day—very good indeed. His appearance is never so impressive
as our dear old vicar’s, but I am bound to say his sermons are
much more impressive. A rather annoying incident occurred, of
which I must make mention. Mrs. Fernlosse, who is quite a grand
lady, living in one of those large houses in the Camden Road, stopped
to speak to me after church, when we were all coming out. I must
say I felt flattered, for she is thought a good deal of. I suppose
she knew me through seeing me so often take round the plate, especially
as she always occupies the corner seat of the pew. She is a very
influential lady, and may have had something of the utmost importance
to say, but unfortunately, as she commenced to speak a strong gust of
wind came and blew my hat off into the middle of the road.

I had to run after it, and had the greatest difficulty in recovering
it. When I had succeeded in doing so, I found Mrs. Fernlosse had
walked on with some swell friends, and I felt I could not well approach
her now, especially as my hat was smothered with mud. I cannot
say how disappointed I felt.

In the evening (Sunday evening of all others) I found an impertinent
note from Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, which ran as follows:

November 25.—Had a long letter from Mr. Fosselton respecting
last night’s Irving discussion. I was very angry, and I
wrote and said I knew little or nothing about stage matters, was not
in the least interested in them and positively declined to be drawn
into a discussion on the subject, even at the risk of its leading to
a breach of friendship. I never wrote a more determined letter.

On returning home at the usual hour on Saturday afternoon I met near
the Archway Daisy Mutlar. My heart gave a leap. I bowed
rather stiffly, but she affected not to have seen me. Very much
annoyed in the evening by the laundress sending home an odd sock.
Sarah said she sent two pairs, and the laundress declared only a pair
and a half were sent. I spoke to Carrie about it, but she rather
testily replied: “I am tired of speaking to her; you had better
go and speak to her yourself. She is outside.” I did
so, but the laundress declared that only an odd sock was sent.

Gowing passed into the passage at this time and was rude enough to
listen to the conversation, and interrupting, said: “Don’t
waste the odd sock, old man; do an act of charity and give it to some
poor mar with only one leg.” The laundress giggled like
an idiot. I was disgusted and walked upstairs for the purpose
of pinning down my collar, as the button had come off the back of my
shirt.

When I returned to the parlour, Gowing was retailing his idiotic
joke about the odd sock, and Carrie was roaring with laughter.
I suppose I am losing my sense of humour. I spoke my mind pretty
freely about Padge. Gowing said he had met him only once before
that evening. He had been introduced by a friend, and as he (Padge)
had “stood” a good dinner, Gowing wished to show him some
little return. Upon my word, Gowing’s coolness surpasses
all belief. Lupin came in before I could reply, and Gowing unfortunately
inquired after Daisy Mutlar. Lupin shouted: “Mind your own
business, sir!” and bounced out of the room, slamming the door.
The remainder of the night was Daisy Mutlar—Daisy Mutlar—Daisy
Mutlar. Oh dear!

November 24.—I went to town without a pocket-handkerchief.
This is the second time I have done this during the last week.
I must be losing my memory. Had it not been for this Daisy Mutlar
business, I would have written to Mr. Burwin-Fosselton and told him
I should be out this evening, but I fancy he is the sort of young man
who would come all the same.

Dear old Cummings came in the evening; but Gowing sent round a little
note saying he hoped I would excuse his not turning up, which rather
amused me. He added that his neck was still painful. Of
course, Burwin-Fosselton came, but Lupin never turned up, and imagine
my utter disgust when that man Padge actually came again, and not even
accompanied by Gowing. I was exasperated, and said: “Mr.
Padge, this is a surprise.” Dear Carrie, fearing
unpleasantness, said: “Oh! I suppose Mr. Padge has only come to
see the other Irving make-up.” Mr. Padge said: “That’s
right,” and took the best chair again, from which he never moved
the whole evening.

My only consolation is, he takes no supper, so he is not an expensive
guest, but I shall speak to Gowing about the matter. The Irving
imitations and conversations occupied the whole evening, till I was
sick of it. Once we had a rather heated discussion, which was
commenced by Cummings saying that it appeared to him that Mr. Burwin-Fosselton
was not only like Mr. Irving, but was in his judgment every way
as good or even better. I ventured to remark that
after all it was but an imitation of an original.

Cummings said surely some imitations were better than the originals.
I made what I considered a very clever remark: “Without an original
there can be no imitation.” Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said quite
impertinently: “Don’t discuss me in my presence, if you
please; and, Mr. Pooter, I should advise you to talk about what you
understand;” to which that cad Padge replied: “That’s
right.” Dear Carrie saved the whole thing by suddenly saying:
“I’ll be Ellen Terry.” Dear Carrie’s imitation
wasn’t a bit liked, but she was so spontaneous and so funny that
the disagreeable discussion passed off. When they left, I very
pointedly said to Mr. Burwin-Fosselton and Mr. Padge that we should
be engaged to-morrow evening.

November 23.—In the evening, Cummings came early. Gowing
came a little later and brought, without asking permission, a fat and,
I think, very vulgar-looking man named Padge, who appeared to be all
moustache. Gowing never attempted any apology to either of us,
but said Padge wanted to see the Irving business, to which Padge said:
“That’s right,” and that is about all he did
say during the entire evening. Lupin came in and seemed in much
better spirits. He had prepared a bit of a surprise. Mr.
Burwin-Fosselton had come in with him, but had gone upstairs to get
ready. In half-an-hour Lupin retired from the parlour, and returning
in a few minutes, announced “Mr. Henry Irving.”

I must say we were all astounded. I never saw such a resemblance.
It was astonishing. The only person who did not appear interested
was the man Padge, who had got the best arm-chair, and was puffing away
at a foul pipe into the fireplace. After some little time I said;
“Why do actors always wear their hair so long?” Carrie
in a moment said, “Mr. Hare doesn’t wear long hair.”
How we laughed except Mr. Fosselton, who said, in a rather patronising
kind of way, “The joke, Mrs. Pooter, is extremely appropriate,
if not altogether new.” Thinking this rather a snub, I said:
“Mr. Fosselton, I fancy—” He interrupted me
by saying: “Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, if you please,”
which made me quite forget what I was going to say to him. During
the supper Mr. Burwin-Fosselton again monopolised the conversation with
his Irving talk, and both Carrie and I came to the conclusion one can
have even too much imitation of Irving. After supper, Mr. Burwin-Fosselton
got a little too boisterous over his Irving imitation, and suddenly
seizing Gowing by the collar of his coat, dug his thumb-nail, accidentally
of course, into Gowing’s neck and took a piece of flesh out.
Gowing was rightly annoyed, but that man Padge, who having declined
our modest supper in order that he should not lose his comfortable chair,
burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the little misadventure.
I was so annoyed at the conduct of Padge, I said: “I suppose you
would have laughed if he had poked Mr. Gowing’s eye out?”
to which Padge replied: “That’s right,” and laughed
more than ever. I think perhaps the greatest surprise was when
we broke up, for Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said: “Good-night, Mr. Pooter.
I’m glad you like the imitation, I’ll bring the other
make-up to-morrow night.”

November 22.—Gowing and Cummings dropped in during the evening.
Lupin also came in, bringing his friend, Mr. Burwin-Fosselton—one
of the “Holloway Comedians”—who was at our party the
other night, and who cracked our little round table. Happy to
say Daisy Mutlar was never referred to. The conversation was almost
entirely monopolised by the young fellow Fosselton, who not only looked
rather like Mr. Irving, but seemed to imagine that he was the
celebrated actor. I must say he gave some capital imitations of
him. As he showed no signs of moving at supper time, I said: “If
you like to stay, Mr. Fosselton, for our usual crust—pray do.”
He replied: “Oh! thanks; but please call me Burwin-Fosselton.
It is a double name. There are lots of Fosseltons, but please
call me Burwin-Fosselton.”

He began doing the Irving business all through supper. He sank
so low down in his chair that his chin was almost on a level with the
table, and twice he kicked Carrie under the table, upset his wine, and
flashed a knife uncomfortably near Gowing’s face. After
supper he kept stretching out his legs on the fender, indulging in scraps
of quotations from plays which were Greek to me, and more than once
knocked over the fire-irons, making a hideous row—poor Carrie
already having a bad head-ache.

When he went, he said, to our surprise: “I will come to-morrow
and bring my Irving make-up.” Gowing and Cummings said they
would like to see it and would come too. I could not help thinking
they might as well give a party at my house while they are about it.
However, as Carrie sensibly said: “Do anything, dear, to make
Lupin forget the Daisy Mutlar business.”

November 21.—Lupin turned up for a few minutes in the evening.
He asked for a drop of brandy with a sort of careless look, which to
my mind was theatrical and quite ineffective. I said: “My
boy, I have none, and I don’t think I should give it you if I
had.” Lupin said: “I’ll go where I can get some,”
and walked out of the house. Carrie took the boy’s part,
and the rest of the evening was spent in a disagreeable discussion,
in which the words “Daisy” and “Mutlar” must
have occurred a thousand times.

November 20.—Have seen nothing of Lupin the whole day.
Bought a cheap address-book. I spent the evening copying in the
names and addresses of my friends and acquaintances. Left out
the Mutlars of course.

November 19, Sunday.—A delightfully quiet day. In the
afternoon Lupin was off to spend the rest of the day with the Mutlars.
He departed in the best of spirits, and Carrie said: “Well, one
advantage of Lupin’s engagement with Daisy is that the boy seems
happy all day long. That quite reconciles me to what I must confess
seems an imprudent engagement.”

Carrie and I talked the matter over during the evening, and agreed
that it did not always follow that an early engagement meant an unhappy
marriage. Dear Carrie reminded me that we married early, and,
with the exception of a few trivial misunderstandings, we had never
had a really serious word. I could not help thinking (as I told
her) that half the pleasures of life were derived from the little struggles
and small privations that one had to endure at the beginning of one’s
married life. Such struggles were generally occasioned by want
of means, and often helped to make loving couples stand together all
the firmer.

Carrie said I had expressed myself wonderfully well, and that I was
quite a philosopher.

We are all vain at times, and I must confess I felt flattered by
Carrie’s little compliment. I don’t pretend to be
able to express myself in fine language, but I feel I have the power
of expressing my thoughts with simplicity and lucidness. About
nine o’clock, to our surprise. Lupin entered, with a wild,
reckless look, and in a hollow voice, which I must say seemed rather
theatrical, said: “Have you any brandy?” I said: “No;
but here is some whisky.” Lupin drank off nearly a wineglassful
without water, to my horror.

We all three sat reading in silence till ten, when Carrie and I rose
to go to bed. Carrie said to Lupin: “I hope Daisy is well?”

Lupin, with a forced careless air that he must have picked up from
the “Holloway Comedians,” replied: “Oh, Daisy?
You mean Miss Mutlar. I don’t know whether she is well or
not, but please never to mention her name again in my presence.”

November 18.—Woke up quite fresh after a good night’s
rest, and feel quite myself again. I am satisfied a life of going-out
and Society is not a life for me; we therefore declined the invitation
which we received this morning to Miss Bird’s wedding. We
only met her twice at Mrs. James’, and it means a present.
Lupin said: “I am with you for once. To my mind a wedding’s
a very poor play. There are only two parts in it—the bride
and bridegroom. The best man is only a walking gentleman.
With the exception of a crying father and a snivelling mother, the rest
are supers who have to dress well and have to pay for
their insignificant parts in the shape of costly presents.”
I did not care for the theatrical slang, but thought it clever, though
disrespectful.

I told Sarah not to bring up the blanc-mange again for breakfast.
It seems to have been placed on our table at every meal since Wednesday.
Cummings came round in the evening, and congratulated us on the success
of our party. He said it was the best party he had been to for
many a year; but he wished we had let him know it was full dress, as
he would have turned up in his swallow-tails. We sat down to a
quiet game of dominoes, and were interrupted by the noisy entrance of
Lupin and Frank Mutlar. Cummings and I asked them to join us.
Lupin said he did not care for dominoes, and suggested a game of “Spoof.”
On my asking if it required counters, Frank and Lupin in measured time
said: “One, two, three; go! Have you an estate in Greenland?”
It was simply Greek to me, but it appears it is one of the customs of
the “Holloway Comedians” to do this when a member displays
ignorance.

In spite of my instructions, that blanc-mange was brought
up again for supper. To make matters worse, there had been an
attempt to disguise it, by placing it in a glass dish with jam round
it. Carrie asked Lupin if he would have some, and he replied:
“No second-hand goods for me, thank you.” I told Carrie,
when we were alone, if that blanc-mange were placed on the table
again I should walk out of the house.

November 17.—Still feel tired and headachy! In the evening
Gowing called, and was full of praise about our party last Wednesday.
He said everything was done beautifully, and he enjoyed himself enormously.
Gowing can be a very nice fellow when he likes, but you never know how
long it will last. For instance, he stopped to supper, and seeing
some blanc-mange on the table, shouted out, while the servant
was in the room: “Hulloh! The remains of Wednesday?”

The Diary of a Nobody is the fictitious diary of Charles Pooter, written by George
Grossmith and originally serialised in Punch magazine in 1888 and 1889.The text of this version is taken from
the Gutenberg etext, and the weblog
format was engineered by Kevan Davis (initially a straight
weblog in 2004, then rewritten as an auto RSS generator in April 2007).